


One Day

by 6mgs7



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 24 hours, All the words, I'll Edit When I'm Dead, M/M, Slurs, The Game, There Will Be No Goddamn Fluff, alternative universe, but there will be blood, lgtbq, one day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:54:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23771905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/6mgs7/pseuds/6mgs7
Summary: How far would you go if you had just one day to save your entire family? Mickey finds himself in a deadly game of cat and mouse as he attempts to pay back his father's debt  in return for the lives of everyone he holds dear.
Comments: 30
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fucking Endgamers Always](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Fucking+Endgamers+Always).



> “What happens if I can’t do it?”
> 
> "If you don’t make it to 6 a.m., your wife and son will die as well. That's just the way it has to be.”

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/spankingshakespeare/49801708363/in/dateposted-public/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Reader... no one knows what the fuck is going to happen in this story less than I do. This story is loosely based on the idea of The Most Dangerous Game. This is "just-between-work" writing, so chapters will probably be short and sporadic, but stick around and let's find out together what happens next! Good luck to all of us 😉 Thanks for stopping by.


	2. CHICAGO'S FINEST

The blood pumped through Mickey’s veins, his heart and head pounding like war drums, his lungs screamed for oxygen, and every muscle in his body burned from exhaustion, but he didn’t dare slow down. The blue and white police cruiser, with a new dent on its hood in the shape of Mickey’s ass, was only a block behind him, and if he didn’t get off the street fast, it would only be a matter of minutes before the driver tried to run him down again. 

  
It was only by pure luck that Mickey had survived the hit. He had been entering the park from N Michigan Ave when the pager he was wearing beeped, just as it did every hour, disclosing his GPS location. He pressed the green button 3 times and was clipping it back onto his belt when the squealing of tires and honking cars alerted him to the police cruiser making a beeline across 3 lanes of traffic and headed straight for him. Mickey turned around just in time and dove onto the hood of the car a second before the grill made contact with his legs. He flew over the top of the car before falling hard on the sidewalk. The car skid past the park entrance, ripping through several flower beds to make a U-turn; Mickey was up in a flash, limping and pushing his way through the crowd that had gathered. 

  
He jumped over a row of cement construction barriers, buying himself a few extra seconds as the driver tried to find an exit through the crowd. Mickey looked behind him, checking for the cruiser as he ran into traffic and was almost hit by three other cars. He made it to the other side of the street, rattled and bruised, but still in one piece. He looked back for the police cruiser, which was pulling onto the road again just a half block away. It charged dangerously into oncoming traffic in Mickey’s direction, causing other cars to veer out of its way.

  
Mickey found the first open door, into a Mexican restaurant filled for the dinner hour. He pushed patrons out of the way, knocking them into walls and tripping over their feet as he went. Halfway through the dining room, he knocked over a waiter who had an arm-full of dishes, but Mickey only slowed down enough to look around the room until he located the doors that led to the kitchen. He could hear the _“woop woop”_ of the police cruiser out on the street as the driver continued to search for him. Finally, at the back door of the restaurant, Mickey poked his head out into the alley where he could see the cruiser turning in at the end of the block. He quickly retreated through the restaurant, running full steam into the same waiter who was bent over trying to clean up the mess he had made less than a minute earlier.

  
“HEY! WATCH IT!” The waiter yelled as Mickey fell on top of him, falling perfectly into the sharp remains of margarita glasses that cut into his arm. He hardly noticed the waiter or the cuts before he was up and running for the front door again, his shirt now covered in what could have been chunks of salsa or his own blood – it was hard to tell. 

  
The police cruiser was still creeping down the alley, so Mickey took off running in the opposite direction, hoping to put distance between him and the driver who was intent on killing him. He’d been running for 15 hours, and thought he had seen the worst of it, but the last thing he’d expected was one of Chicago’s finest try to run him down… Though, the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He’d pissed off more than a few cops in his time, and definitely one in particular in recent days..


	3. THE RUSSIAN

**14 HOURS EARLIER:**

  
“The rules to this game are simple, Mikhailo. No guns. You cannot go to the police, is that understood? If you do, you forfeit the game, and I won’t be able to save you. For every hour you stay alive, our investors will wash away $50,000 of your father’s debt.” His Russian accent was so strong that Mickey had trouble understanding him, even after many years of hearing that same accent in his own house.

 _“Fifty-thou_ – Jesus Christ! How much does he fucking owe you?”  
  
“I don’t think the amount is what is important here, wouldn’t you agree?”  
  
Mickey thought of the photos they had sent him – one of his sister Mandy leaving her office building in New York, oblivious to the person taking her picture from across the street; one of each of his brothers all similarly naïve as they went about their day; and one of Terry, Mickey's father, bloody and beaten, and quite possibly already dead. It wasn’t any of those that had alarmed Mickey quite as much as the last photo. That picture had scared him when he saw his ex-wife Svetlana, and her son, Yevgeny sitting in the corner of a room on the floor. Svetlana’s arms and legs were bound with zip ties and her mouth taped shut. Yevgeny sat beside her with tears in his eyes, also bound at the wrists and ankles like his mother.   
  
The man on the other end of the line continued, “The first 14 hours that you manage to stay alive will clear your father’s debt to us, with a little left over to play, of course. After that, for each additional hour, we’ll forgive your family’s treason, one sibling at a time. That should take you to midnight. Are you with me so far?”  
  
Mickey’s throat was parched and he could barely find his voice, so he nodded as if the man on the phone could see him, then a second later added a horse, “Yeah, yeah, got it. What about Svet and the kid.”  
  
“The _kid_? That’s hardly the way to talk about your own son, is it?”   
  
“He’s-" Mickey almost finished with _not my son_ , but quickly realized he might be putting Svetlana and Yevgeny in even more danger if they knew Terry was actually Yevgeny’s father. Instead he asked, “He’s ok, right? You haven’t hurt him?” Mickey squeezed his eyes and fist tight. The thought of anyone hurting Yevgeny would kill him, and they knew that much for sure.   
  
“The boy is fine. He’s a little shaken, but don’t worry. He and your wife are safe and sound… for now.”  
  
“Ok. So, what do I need to do to get them out of there?”  
  
“Ah! See – I knew you would come around! This is where the game gets fun… for you, I mean! After all, we are not animals, Mikhailo. I hope you don’t think we’re just trying to punish you for your father’s mistakes.” His jovial voice was out of place in such dire circumstances and it made Mickey want to jump through the phone and rip out his throat. “Our investors just want a good show, that's all. We understand that while the son, that’s _you_ , might have to pay the price of his father’s sins, you also deserve something for the excitement you are about to give us, all in the name of making things right. So, once Terry’s debt and your brothers and sister are all safe, then you will get a chance to change your life as well!”  
  
Mickey didn’t respond, angrily or otherwise. In normal circumstances, if any of this could ever happen in normal circumstance, the idea of getting a chance to change his life might have elated him– but there was nothing normal about this, and the only viable and acceptable outcome was getting Svetlana and Yevgeny back alive.   
  
The man sounded disappointed when he spoke again, “I was really hoping that last part would excite you, Mikhailo. But, since the cat seems to have caught your tongue, I’ll just continue. After midnight, for every hour you stay alive, we will deposit $25,000 into an account just for you! Isn’t that fantastic?”   
  
“I don’t give a fuck about any money!” Mickey yelled, finding his voice again. “What about the boy!?”  
  
“Yes, yes… your little family. I’ll get to that in just a moment, but as I was saying, you’ll receive $25,000 for every hour you stay alive, up until 6 a.m. And at that time the game will end! You and your little family can walk away, completely debt free to us, and $150,000 richer! And I give you my word, the Milkovich family will never hear from us again. Doesn’t that sound wonderful!?”  
  
Wonderful was hardly the way Mickey would describe any of it. Stay alive for 24 hours or risk losing his entire family in just one day. There was just one question left unanswered.  
  
“What happens if I can’t do it?”  
  
“Have faith, Mikhailo! It’s just one day! Surely you can do that. We’ve had our eye on you for many years, ever since your father began doing business with us. If ever there was a Milkovich made for survival, _you_ are the one!”  
  
“Stop fucking around and answer my fucking question!” Mickey growled. His initial shock was fading now and the thought of anyone even threatening to hurt Yevgeny had him ready to fight.  
  
“There he is… That’s the man we were hoping for.” The desire that dripped from the man’s voice was thick with hunger. He paused and let the anticipation build. Just when Mickey was about to burst, the man finally answered, “We will allow you to clear this debt hour by hour. After that, you will have the opportunity to save your family, one by one, an hour at a time, but if you die before your father’s debt is paid in full, your family will pay as well, just as you did. Rest assured, every life you earn, you get to keep.”  
  
“What happens after midnight? After my brothers and sister are safe, and Terry’s debt is paid? What about the kid?” Mickey asked, knowing but dreading the answer.  
  
“After midnight, you only stand to lose what is yours alone – your life, as unfortunate as that may be. Of course, we’ll allow you to keep whatever money you’ve earned up until then. That will stay in your account for your next of kin.” The man paused again, then finally gave the answer Mickey was waiting for, “And of course, if you don’t make it to 6 a.m., your wife and son will die as well. That's just the way it has to be.”  
  
There they were – the words Mickey had feared the most. His legs went out from under him and he nearly missed the seat of the chair as he sat down hard. He held the phone to his ear trying to think of anything he had in his possession to negotiate with them, but he had nothing. Truth be told, he had less than nothing. The past ten years he’d been working with his father, running guns and dealing drugs, not knowing that Terry had been stealing from the outfit for years. Mickey had started to suspect his father’s misdealing a year earlier and made the wise decision at that time to cut ties and walk away from it all. The last year had been hell, trying to rebuild his life from the ground up with no education or legitimate job experience. There were few friendly contacts who were willing to give him a hand up, and even more enemies due to his dad's violent business practices. It had been a year of struggle and hardship, and he was barely starting to find his footing when everything fell to shit. Now, listening to this faceless man threatening to kill his entire family, Mickey’s stomach churned. He scrubbed a shaking hand down his face, and pinched back the tears that threatened to fall, then took a deep breath and hoped it didn’t sound like the desperate gasp that it really was. _How the fuck did I get here_ , he wondered, but the answer was simple - he was a Milkovich, born into shit and violence, and by extension, fucked for life.  
  
“You have to understand, Mikhailo, we’re just trying to help motivate you… to win the game. If you win, everyone wins.”  
  
_“Fuck you.”_ Mickey sneered, grateful that his voice didn’t shake.  
  
“Yes. Well. It’s 5:07. You have exactly 23 minutes to get to the Roosevelt station. There will be someone there to meet you and give you more instructions, then the game will begin promptly at 6 a.m. Leave your phone, your wallet, and any personal belongings at home, Mikhailo – and trust me, you do not want to bring a gun or any other weapons with you, is that understood?”  
  
Mickey was already rushing to empty his pockets as he headed for the door. “Yeah, I fucking got it, asshole.”  
  
“22 minutes to go. Good luck to you.”


	4. FAT FUCKING LOUIE

  
It took Mickey 6 minutes to make the 15-minute drive to Roosevelt station. Traffic was light for an early Saturday morning, so he barely slowed before running every red light and stop sign. When he arrived, he checked his pockets one last time to make sure he was clean, then dialed Ian’s phone again.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up! _Fuck_!” Mickey waited impatiently for Ian’s recorded message to end, “God damn it, call me the fuck back! I need…” 

Mickey stopped talking and disconnected the call, realizing two things: he was about to leave his phone behind so Ian wouldn't be able to call him back, but more importantly, The Russian had told him they had been watching him. What if they were tracing his calls as well? It had been two weeks since he and Ian had broken up, and more than a week since they spoke last, so with any luck Ian hadn’t been factored in to any of this, but Mickey couldn’t be sure. He checked the time on his phone once more - not quite 5:30 - then turned if off and tucked it under his seat.  
  
He looked around suspiciously at the people he passed as he headed up the steps to the L. Roosevelt Station was located in a populated area just blocks away from the Field Museum and Soldier’s Field, which put Mickey at ease a little. There were too many people on their way to work in the area, and he hoped it was enough to keep them from murdering him in broad daylight. He reached the top of the platform, not sure where to go next when someone caught hold of his arm.  
  
“Hey, Mickey! Long time!”   
  
Mickey spun around at the mention of his name, yanking his arm away from the grip, then settled a bit when he realized it was only Fat Fucking Louie from the neighborhood. Mickey dismissed him with a nod and turned to keep walking, but Louie kept up stride for stride, making Mickey turn to him again.  
  
“The fuck are you doing out so early?” Mickey asked, eyeing him from head to toe and noticing that Fat Fucking Louie wasn’t so fucking fat anymore. He’d taken off about 100 pounds or more, his 6’2” body now lean, and not much of the Michelin Man that Mickey remembered him to be. Mickey looked around wondering if the person he was meeting was already there, possibly standing back in the shadows because Louie had interrupted their rendezvous.  
  
Louie nodded his head to the side, “Let’s you and me talk a minute, Mickey.” He smiled at Mickey, then raised his brows and gave him a shrug in that ‘whatcha-gonna-do’ sort of way, before Mickey realized it was Louie that he was meeting.  
  
“You gotta be kidding me. Unfuckingbelievable.” He led the way to the far side of the platform, with Louie practically flank at his side. “How the fuck did you get involved with this shit?”  
  
Louie laughed, “You remember that one Halloween when you was out at my place with your dad? I told you I lost my job and couldn’t feed my kid, and I didn’t have any money to pay you. Remember that?” Louie said _that_ with a ‘d’ so it sounded more like _dat_. When Mickey didn’t answer, Louie continued, “Yeah, well maybe you don’t remember ‘cause it was a long time ago, and I was just one guy out of hundreds, right? Anyways, you said something like _‘Boo fucking hoo, bitch!’_ Then you swung your Louisville right into my fucking leg. Man, that shit hurt like a motherfucker, Mickey. I had to wear a cast for 2 months, you know that?”  
  
They stopped walking at the end of the platform and Louie cornered Mickey right up against the edge near the tracks. Mickey could see the next Red Line train headed in their direction and wondered if Louie planned to push him onto the tracks as it came near, but seconds later the train rushed passed them and Mickey let out a breath of relief to still be standing.   
  
“I lost my fucking construction job. It was a good job too. Then my girl left with my kid and took most of my shit. Hell, I couldn’t even recoup at home comfortably, because you assholes took my flat screen TV and everything else you could sell... all over a couple bennies, Mickey.” Louie looked down at Mickey and cracked the knuckles of one fist against the other, waiting for Mickey to cower or look away, but in true Milkovich fashion, even as the underdog, Mickey squared off and stood unflinching, then chuckled.   
  
“So, what… now you need a fucking shoulder to cry on or something? _Fuck you,_ bitch.” He had bigger things to worry about than shit that happened five years ago. Mickey took a step toward Louie, and as expected, Louie took an instinctive step away. Mickey nudged his finger against his nose and laughed at him. “If you’re gonna do something, now’s the time, bitch, ‘cause I don't got all fucking day to stand here listening to you cry about getting your ass kicked.” Mickey pushed two fingers hard into Louie’s chest and took another step. “And don’t fucking try to blame me for losing your job or your kid, asshole. I didn’t stick that fucking needle in your arm. You did that shit all on your own. I just went to collect what was rightfully mine, got it?” Louie seemed to have forgotten why they were there, and the clock was ticking, so Mickey reminded him, “Now tell me whatever the fuck it is you were sent here for.”  
  
Louie unclenched his jaw then cleared his throat, his humility taking the front seat as his bravado slipped away behind him. He decided he still might not be up to taking on Mickey Milkovich after all, because Mickey played for keeps. Louie quickly back peddled, "Listen, Mickey, I'm just here to do a job, ok? Just like you were - I get it now." 

Mickey stepped down and Louie breathed a sigh of relief, then stuttered out, "I-I gotta frisk you now." 

Mickey held his arms at his side, then rolled his eyes when Louie asked him to turn around first. Louie took Mickey's car keys from his pocket, and once he was satisfied that Mickey wasn't carrying any other weapons or his phone, Louie pulled something from his own pocket. “Lift up your pant leg. I gotta put this on your ankle.”  
  
“The fuck is that?”  
  
“It’s like one of those house arrest bracelets. They’ll take it off you tomorrow… if you make it that long.” Louie locked the anklet into place, then pulled out a pager and handed it to Mickey. “You need to keep both of these on you at all times, got it? I need to hear you say it, Mickey.”  
  
“Jesus Christ, I’m not fucking deaf.”  
  
Louie looked at Mickey a little softer now, then off at a distant train, feeling the slightest regret for the game he was about to take part in, “I used to like you, you know that? You were ok most of the time, hell we even got high now and then when we were kids, remember?”   
  
Mickey clipped the pager to his belt, then looked at Louie like he’d lost his fucking mind. “What the fuck ever. What’s next?"  
  
“Here’s what you need to remember,” Louie pulled a paper from his pocket. He’d written down the directions word for word that he was supposed to tell Mickey, on threat of his own life if he fucked it up. Mickey didn’t give him a chance to unfold it before he ripped the paper from Louie's hands. “Hey! I need that!”  
  
“The fuck you do.” Mickey said as he started to walk away. “Is this everything?”   
  
“Yeah… but wait, Mickey! Hold up a sec.” Mickey spun on him, and Louie jump back again. “The game doesn't start 'til 6. I’m supposed to give you this. You have about 20 minutes left to get as far away from here as you can.”  
  
Louie handed Mickey a single ride train pass, due to expire with less than one hour remaining.   
  
“That it?” 

Louie nodded, and Mickey took off running. He jumped on to the train just before the doors closed. It lurched forward, heading north. Mickey's hands shook as he unfolded the paper he'd taken from Louie and began to read.


	5. THE VELVET BOX

  
Ian searched his work bag for his phone, then ran back up the stairs to the bedroom he once shared with his brothers, and was currently sharing again, to take another look around.  
  
“God damn it.”  
  
“Lose something? His brother Lip stood behind him with a towel wrapped around his waist.  
  
“My phone. Have you seen it?”  
  
Lip shook his head. He noticed a box sitting on the Ian's bed along with his clothes which were folded neatly in the military style he was accustomed to. "You headed home today?”  
  
“Yeah, I think so, but I need to find my phone first.”  
  
“I’m sure it’s here somewhere. What's all this shit?” Lip started nosing through the box on the bed. It was filled with odds and ends Ian had brought back from the military, including dozens of ribbons that had decorated his uniform when he came home that last time. “What are these?” He held up two bundles of envelopes held together with rubber bands, most of them blank on the outside and a few with Mickey’s chicken scratch handwriting across the front.  
  
Ian snatched them away, making Lip chuckle. “Relax. I wasn’t gonna read them.” He pulled out a little black velvet box and opened it. “You gonna return these?”  
  
Ian looked at the two bands inside the box and gave Lip the smallest shrug of his shoulders.  
  
“Think I should?”  
  
“I dunno, man. I mean, twelve fucking years is a hell of a long time to just walk away from, you know? You really think it's over?”  
  
"I don't know." Ian was exhausted thinking about it day and night. He had no answers. "He said 'done is done' so I guess that means he's done."  
  
Lip closed the jewelry box and tossed it back into the box. “Yeah, maybe. I still don't get why you're here though. I mean, it’s your fucking house, why didn’t he move?”  
  
“It's _our_ house... And he did. Yesterday. He was just waiting on his check so he could pay the deposit on his new place. We were supposed to meet up last night so I could get the keys back, but I laid down thinking I’d hear my phone when he called, and now I can’t find it. He probably thinks I blew him off.”  
  
Lip scratched his hand through his brother’s messy hair, “Let me go get some pants on and I’ll help you look for your phone.”  
  
Lip left to get dressed and Ian reached for the black jewelry box again. He brushed away the tears that welled up in his eyes, thinking of the way Mickey had looked at him when he’d asked Mickey to marry him, like Ian had lost his mind. It hadn’t been the first time – Ian had asked him a dozen times before, since they were just kids, but every time Mickey had given him some smartass response that was somehow not a yes, but also not a no. Ian had always known that the time would come when Mickey would finally say yes, and he was willing to wait. Hell, he was willing to live with ‘no’ for the rest of his life as long as Mickey stayed by his side, but the last time Ian had asked him had been different.   
  
They’d been arguing for months. Ian attributed the bickering to any number of things that had changed in the past year – for one, Ian had finally returned home, discharged from the military. Ten years of rare weekend and furlough visits had come to an end, but the transition hadn’t been all sunshine and roses.

On top of that, Mickey’s year had been even more of a transition than Ian’s. For the first time in his life, he was trying to go the straight and narrow road, just as he had always promised he would do if Ian ever came back to Chicago for good. Only, leaving the Milkovich world of drugs and crime behind him had turned out to be nearly impossible. Either Mickey’s brothers were always in a pinch that they needed his help getting out of, or Mickey’s dad was threatening to rip Mickey's balls off if he ever saw him out on the street again. Those Milkovich ties were no joke.  
  
Ian heard a phone beep somewhere downstairs. He tossed the jewelry box onto the bed and went running. When he got to the kitchen he was disappointed to see that it was only his sister Fiona at the kitchen table laughing at a text on her own phone.   
  
“Oh. It’s just you.” Ian said.  
  
Fiona looked up at him and gave an offended laugh, “Gee… thanks?”  
  
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I lost my phone. I’m on call this weekend, so I really need to find it.”   
  
“That sucks.” Fiona could always tell when something was bothering one of her brothers, and looking at Ian, it was clear that his missing phone wasn’t the real issue. “You ok? Wanna talk?”  
  
Ian took a seat at the table and cradled his head in his hands, shaking it back and forth, “No.”  
  
Fiona put her phone face down on the table and waited.   
  
“I just don’t get it, Fi,” Ian continued. Fiona got up to pour herself another cup of coffee, knowing they might be there for a few minutes. “I mean we’ve been doing great, for years. What the fuck changed?” He didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “I’ve felt like shit for months, wondering why the fuck I’m not enough all of a sudden. I bought us a house, I got a fucking job, Mickey finally got Svet to agree to some sort of visitation now that he’s out of his dad’s house, everything is good, you know?”  
  
“But what about Mickey?”  
  
“What about Mickey?” Ian asked.  
  
“I mean, have you ever thought about how hard this must be for him? Sure, you got a house, but couldn't you just find a place back here on the south side? No... You had to move up north.” Fiona laughed at the irony of Mickey moving to the north side, “He’s gotta fucking hate that."

"It was closer to my job." Ian defended.

"And on top of that, half the time you’re the only one paying the bills because he’s been in between jobs for the last year. That’s gotta be hard on him.”  
  
“Mickey doesn’t give a shit about any of that,” Ian said, but he knew she was right. It had been one of the things they argued about. Mickey had slowly come to terms with living on the north side, only because the schools there were better for Yevgeny, but not being able to contribute to their bills as often as he should had really bothered Mickey.  
  
“Well… then what about his dad? I mean, come on, Ian, he tried to kill both of you when you were just kids. You think he just suddenly warmed up to the idea that his son quit working for him so he could run off and play house with his gay boyfriend after all these years? Hell, Terry probably thought you were long gone. He married Mickey off with a kid, so imagine his surprise when Mickey got divorced and went running back to you.”  
  
“It wasn’t like that.”  
  
“Terry doesn’t know that. Does he even know that Yevgeny is his?”  
  
Ian only looked at her, but she knew the answer was no. If Terry ever got his claws into Yevgeny, there was no telling what abuse he would rain down on him, just as he had with his other kids. Fiona leaned in, taking his hand in hers and spoke gently.  
  
“Ian, _you_ got out. Don’t you see that? Mickey didn’t. He stayed here and staying here usually means that you’re the same piece of shit at 28 or 38 that you were at 18, only now you’re older and broker, and usually you got a few kids you can’t afford to feed. But you… you came back wearing your fancy uniform and shiny ribbons, with all these worldly experiences…and in everyone’s eyes, you were some kind of fucking hero, you know? Then you went and got a job he fucking hates, while he can barely pay his child support. All Mickey ever needed was for you to be like Josh Bishop.”  
  
“Who is Josh Bishop?” Ian asked accusingly, wondering if Mickey had cheated on him when he was gone.  
  
“Josh, the guy who lost his left arm in Iran. Lives down the block. He came home, settled back in to the house he grew up in, got his nice little factory job back that he had before he left, and got on with his life like nothing ever happened. But you didn’t do that.”  
  
“I shouldn’t feel bad for doing what I’m good at, Fiona. I can’t work in a convenience store the rest of my life.”  
  
“No. But you should at least try to remember how all of it makes Mickey feel, especially if you're serious enough to ask him to marry you.” 

Ian knew she wasn't completely wrong.


	6. RULE #1: DON'T FUCK UP

  
Mickey took a seat at the back of the railcar, but as the train began to fill with morning commuters, he realized he had backed himself into a corner. He moved to stand by the door where he could keep an eye on everyone around him and make a fast escape if necessary. 

Those first two hours seemed deceitfully easy. He took the Red Line as far as the Howard Station, and when that ride had ended incident free, he grabbed a return train in the opposite direction, not sure where he was supposed to go or what was supposed to happen next. He couldn’t ride the train all day; he had no money and his single ride pass was expired, so he got off before hitting downtown and headed west.   
  
The paper he’d taken from Louie had given Mickey more insight to the _Game_ than he was probably supposed to have. In addition to the rules that Louie was supposed to verbally deliver to him, the paper included a comprehensive bookie’s payout grid. Investors of the game had bet on Mickey's survival or demise hour by hour, and the stakes were higher than Mickey had ever imagined with payouts going into the millions.   
  
_Who the fuck are these people,_ he wondered?   
  
The greatest odds against him didn’t come until after the lunch hour, so he’d have to be his most vigilant then, assuming the grid was based off past player results. Still, he stayed on high alert and kept his eyes and ears open for anyone who looked out of place as he moved through the city.  
  
Louie had circled 3 different time slots, evidence of his own bets placed against Mickey, but something more caught his eye; written in the margin were 3 payouts, with an additional three payouts that had an asterisk beside them. Mickey studied it for a while, then finally understood that Fat Fucking Louie had not only bet on Mickey’s time of death, but he had also bought into the Game itself as an assassin. He had more to win if Mickey stayed alive until at least 2pm, and the highest payout came if he took Mickey out himself. That explained why Louie had been so willing to let Mickey leave without incident earlier that morning.  
  
“ _Motherfucker_! I shoulda thrown your ass onto the tracks when I had the chance, you fat fucking motherfucking little bitch!” Mickey grumbled.   
  
Mickey flipped the paper over where there were 6 rules listed, each of them simple enough – or at least as simple as they could be when he was being hunted:   
  
**Rule #1:** The pager would buzz 3 times at the top of every hour, and Mickey would need to respond by pressing the green button 3 times to indicate he was still in the game. Not doing so would indicate that he had either died or that he was forfeiting the game  
  
 **Rule #2** : Mickey must keep the pager and ankle bracelet on him at all times. They were electronically tied to one another and would disclose his location to the Gamemaster throughout the day. If he were to remove the ankle bracelet, it would sound an alarm, and he would forfeit the game. Conversely, if he were to lose the pager or if he tried to leave it behind, both the anklet and pager would sound an alarm, alerting him and the Gamemaster when they had been separated by more than 15 feet. Mickey would have just 15 minutes to retrieve the pager or he would forfeit the game. 

Mickey instinctively reached down to make sure the pager was securely fastened to his belt.   
  
**Rule #3** : The Gamemaster would disclose his GPS location to investors and Assassins on the hour, every hour for just 10 seconds, giving them the upper hand in locating him.  
  
 **Rule #4** : The Assassins could use any weapon except guns. The one exception would be if Mickey were to obtain a gun, then they could use a gun as well, but hand to hand combat was encouraged and paid the highest yield. There were no penalties to Mickey if one of the Assassins were to be killed.

"Yeah? Tell that to the fucking cops, assholes!" At least he knew he wouldn't be surprised with a bullet to the back of his head.   
  
**Rule #5** : Mickey could not involve any authorities, which included the police or medical assistance of any kind.   
  
Louie had underlined this rule three times, making an additional note in the margin of the page: _Investors include people from everywhere, including neighbors, store clerks, all the way up to Supreme Court Justices. They are always watching!_ Mickey remembered the way Louie had seemed almost regretful at the station and wondered if that last bit wasn’t his own friendly warning to Mickey, since it hadn’t actually been written in with the other rules. Mickey almost had a second of gratitude until he remembered that fucking fat bitch was in on all of it.  
  
The final rule made Mickey’s heart race again. The quiet train ride had dulled him to what was at risk, but reading Rule #6 brought it all back to him again.  
  
 **Rule #6** : Mickey was allowed to forfeit the game at any time or by default for breaking rules #1-5, retaining any earned rewards as agreed upon. Forfeiture prior to 6 a.m. would result in all remaining rewards and his own life to be terminated.   
  
In short, forfeiting the game would result in a hit on his own life and the remaining members of his family until they were all dead, including Svetlana and Yevgeny. Mickey scrubbed both hands down his face and took several deep breaths to calm himself. This wasn’t the first time he was putting his life on the line, but it was the first time Svetlana and Yevgeny had been in danger because of him, and he was determined not to fuck it up by being stupid.   
  
Mickey realized he had been walking in the direction of his and Ian’s… _fuck_ … IAN’S house when he reached the corner of School and Claremont. Mickey cut down the alley and reached into his pocket instinctively for his house keys when he arrived at the back gate, but his pockets were empty.   
  
“Shit.” Louie had taken his keys.

He tried the back door, knowing there was no point. He had locked the house up tight the night before and set the stupid alarm that Ian had insisted on installing when they bought the house. Still, Mickey made his way around the side of the house, checking each window for any that may have been left unlocked. When he reached the front of the house, he was greeted by Adam Bradley, one of dads from Yevgeny’s baseball teams. Adam was leaning against iron rail that led up the front steps to the door, as if he’d been waiting for Mickey all along.  
  
“How’s it going, Mickey!” Adam flashed a nervous smile that faded too quickly. A metal baseball bat rested over his right shoulder. He took hold of it with both hands, as if he might swing it at any second.   
  
Mickey stepped away from him, keeping his eyes on the bat, but didn’t return the greeting.  
  
“So… How do you think the season’s gonna go this year? Yevy’s playing, right? Bright boy… talented too. Best first baseman we've had in two seasons, and boy, can he hit! I’m sure he learned how to swing a bat like that from you... right?" Adam took a step forward, putting himself between Mickey and the open gate. "I can’t imagine Svetlana taught him that.”

Mickey didn't bother to tell him that Ian had taught Yevgeny to swing. By the way Adam was looking at him, it didn't seem to be that important a detail just then. Adam looked up and down the street, and stopped short when he noticed Mickey's neighbor coming out of the house across the street. Adam offered a friendly wave as they walked to their car. The neighbor waved back, looking at Mickey as if asking if everything was ok. Mickey forced a little wave, then turned his attention back to Adam when his neighbor drove off.  
  
“Sup? Preseason doesn’t start ‘til next week, right?” Mickey asked. He didn't want to believe that Adam fucking Bradley, father of 3, local business man, and volunteer at the school dances was actually there to try to kill him... but just in case, Mickey took another step back. He made a quick sweep of the yard, looking for a rake or branch or anything that could be used defend himself, but the yard was clean. Adam advanced on him again and let out a nervous chuckle.   
  
“Yeah, that’s right - next week. Just thought I’d get a little batting practice in this morning." He jerked the bat as if he were about to swing, then chuckled again when Mickey jumped back. "Thought I’d stop by to see if you might be interested in joining me.” He choked up on the bat this time and prepared for a swing. “You interested?”   
  
Adam started toward Mickey again when the roar of a car engine caught his attention. A GTR with windows tinted as black as its paint came rushing down the street, its engine growled louder as it approached. Adam turned to look at the car as it slowed to a crawl in front of the house, then took off again, and Mickey took that opportunity to take off running! He leaped over the chain link fence into the neighbor's yard leaving the GTR and Adam behind him. He didn’t look back to see if Adam had followed but could hear him cursing at the loss of his prey.  
  
Mickey ran toward a mini mall just a few blocks away, hoping the morning shoppers and traffic would discourage Adam from following, and for the most part he was right. Adam followed him only so far, but when Mickey ran across the boulevard, dodging cars as he went, Adam was left on the other end of the busy road, bent over and laughing as Mickey escaped him.  
  
“Maybe later, Mickey!" Adam tried to catch his breath, smiling and waving at Mickey as if it had all been in jest. "We’ll catch up later, ok buddy? Good to see you again!”  
  
Mickey picked up a golf ball sized rock from the street and waited for a clearing in traffic, then threw it as hard as he could at that asshole, making Adam jump back to avoid being hit.  
  
“FUCK YOU!” Mickey screamed, raising his hand and his middle finger high in the air.

The black GTR rolled up to the corner next to Adam. Mickey dropped his hand and took off running again through the mall parking lot, getting a head start on the GTR which was stuck at a red light with heavy cross traffic. He could hear the driver revving their engine as they waited for the light to change.

The pager on Mickey's belt buzzed 3 times, but in his rush, he almost didn’t hear it. He fumbled to press the green button quickly three times and began counting backwards from 10 as he ran, contemplating his next move (9...8…7…). Running straight would take him to an empty parking lot, leaving him out in the open and an easy target (6... 5…4…) but the alternative was to duck behind the buildings toward the loading docks at the back of the stores, which would leave him just as vulnerable (3... 2…1)   
  
Mickey knew the exact second the traffic light turned green, because the squealing of the GTRs tires could be heard all the way across the lot to where he had made it. Its engine roared as it raced through the lot in search of him. He did the only thing he could do - He fell to the ground and crawled under a pick-up truck to hide, hoping for the best. As the car drew closer, it slowed to a crawl, searching up and down the aisles for any sign of him. 

Mickey’s heart raced and sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes, making him squeeze them tight against the salty burn. He rolled into the small blind spot behind the trucks tires and tucked his legs close to him, making himself as small as possible as the car came closer. The car turned into his aisle, and he felt the ground rumble beneath him, announcing its arrival. It slowed, then stopped just one car over… then rolled forward again, making it's way painfully slow down the aisle. Mickey waited until it had gone more than halfway down the aisle before carefully rolling out from under the truck, being careful not to make a sound. He ducked low, staying out of sight as he peeked through car windows and moved in the opposite direction of the GTR. He was shuffling between a beat up Toyota and the shopping cart return station when an old man came running toward him.  
  
 _“HEY! Get away from my car!”_  
  
“No no no no!” Mickey shushed him, waving the man away and trying to reassure the him that everything was ok, but the man kept coming for him, his fist raised high above his head, ready to fight.   
  
Mickey glanced around the lot, hoping they hadn’t attracted the driver, then took off running down the same aisle the GTR had just cleared toward the back of the stores.   
  
“I’m calling the cops! You hear me! I know what you look like and I’m calling the cops…” the man continued screaming at Mickey, drawing the attention of several bystanders, but fortunately the driver of the GTR had reached the end of the parking lot and hadn’t bother to look back at the commotion taking place in their rear-view mirror. Mickey took one last look at the car as it exited the parking lot and sped away down the street in search of him, then ran as fast as his legs would carry him, hoping to make it to the riverfront before they returned. 


	7. MR. FIZZLE

  
  
Ian pulled his car into the driveway behind his house and turned off the ignition. He sighed heavily when he saw that the lawn had been recently mowed and the sidewalk swept clean of grass clippings, just as it always was. Mickey had hated yard work. When they bought the house, he had bitched about it, saying, “I ain’t fucking mowing it! It’s a waste of water if you ask me. Never had a lawn my whole life and I turned out just fine,” which soon evolved to, “I ain’t mowing it in two different directions! You want fancy shit like that, do it yourself, or hire some fucking kid. I ain’t doing it!” ... _grumble grumble grumble grumble!  
_  
Grumbling over bullshit was Mickey’s favorite pastime. It was one of the things that had attracted Ian to him when they were just kids – he was like a feisty old man trapped inside a 17-year old’s body. There was no doubt in Ian's mind that when Mickey actually became an old man he’d be totally impossible to be around, but that was ok too. Ian was the perfect balance of cool, calm, and collected to keep Mickey in line. They were a good team… or, at least they had been.  
  
In the year that they lived there, Ian had cut the grass only one time. As it turned out, Mickey was a yard man, and it was as much a surprise to him as anyone. He loved going out in the late afternoon when it had cooled down, pushing _his_ mower back and forth in perfect, straight diagonal lines, while Ian sat on the porch sipping a cold beer and pointing out every blade of grass that Mickey missed. Ian had given him that stupid crooked grin when Mickey chose the electric mower over the gas one, knowing it was because Mickey was trying to ' _Re-Use, Reduce, and Recycle'_ for Yevgeny’s sake, after the kid had asked him why they didn’t do any of those thing. Mickey had insisted it had nothing to do with that. “Yeah, I know it’s fucking bougie as shit, but I’m not running to a fucking gas station when that gas mower runs dry in the middle of the yard.” Ian didn't say another word, but he did grab an extra battery, just in case.  
  
He had tried several times to help out with yard work, knowing Mickey would only bitch about the way it was done, “You'll cut it too fucking low and it'll burn… Is it so fucking hard to cut it at a diagonal? I mean, it’s still a straight line. I know your ass ain’t so gay you can’t walk a straight line.” Sitting there in the car, Ian chuckled at the memory of Mickey laughing at his own joke. Truth be told, one of Ian’s favorite things about living there was watching Mickey move around out there on a warm summer day, moisture glistening on his skin, those dark Aviator shades against his milky white complexion, his strong back muscles outlined in the tight black tank top he wore - “don’t fucking throw it away, you can’t even see the grass stains…” - and that one pair of baggy jeans that Ian couldn’t seem to convince him to burn (and secretly didn’t want him to)… Yep, Mickey was a snack!  
  
And Ian missed him.  
  
He pushed it all away and tried not to think about it… the fresh cut grass, the black tank top… He had to face the fact that Mickey left, and he didn’t know if or when he would be back.  
  
He got out of the car to retrieve the recycle bin Mickey had put out in the alley the night before for pick-up, and rolled it back to the side of the garage. Next, he grabbed the box of junk he'd found under the bed in his old room, his duffel, and his uniforms from the car then headed for the house. When he got to the door he started to lose his grip on the box he was holding as he fumbled in his pockets for the keys he'd had just moments earlier.   
  
“Oh.. _shit!_ ” He tried to catch the box, but it was too late. It fell to the ground and he heard the crunching of something breakable inside. He pushed the box aside with his foot, checking one last pocket, then suddenly stopped short.   
  
“Where the fuck is Mr. Fizzle?”   
  
The little red and green gnome that Mickey loved so much, with one tiny gnome hand grabbing its crotch and the other flipping the bird, was gone. Mickey had found him at a flea market when they went shopping for a dresser, and used him to prop the back screen door open. Mr. Fizzle had sat on the back stoop ever since the day they moved in, but now he was nowhere to be seen.   
  
Ian walked around the side of the house to check for him, but no such luck. It didn't make sense... no one had ever moved Mr. Fizzle before. Ian looked by the garage, then walked all the way to the front of the house to check there. The front gate was open so he took a second to close it, then turned and just stood there staring at nothing.   
  
“Hey Ian, how’s it going?”   
  
Ian hardly noticed Adam Bradley walking back to his car, looking like he’d just run a marathon, and dragging a baseball bat behind him.  
  
“How’s it going…” Ian mumbled, not paying attention to whether Adam answered.  
  
He walked back around the side of the house, then stopped. The grass had been mowed one last time in its usual perfect straight diagonal lines, the recycle bin Mickey had insisted they try to use had been put out for the morning pick up, and now Mr. Fizzle was gone. The reality of having to walk into the house to find everything else that was essentially Mickey gone was just too much, and Ian wasn’t ready to deal with that.  
  
“Fuck this shit,” he grumbled, walking straight back to his car.   
  
He opened the back door and tossed his uniforms and the duffel in haphazardly, then drove away without looking back. He would go stay in his old room at Fiona’s one more night, and give it another shot tomorrow. In the meantime, he decided to go in search of a new phone, just in case Mickey decided he wanted to talk.   
  
On the way out of the neighborhood, Ian stopped at the police station just 5 blocks from the house. He wanted to let the sergeant know that he’d lost his phone but would have a new one in a couple hours, just in case they ended up needing him to work an extra shift.


	8. WEEBLES WOBBLE, BUT THEY DON'T FALL DOWN

Mickey ran for 10 minutes along the river, glancing over his shoulder often to make sure Adam hadn’t decided to try to catch him. He slowed as he passed the police station looking for Ian’s car, but it was impossible to see the lot without getting closer, and Mickey didn’t dare go closer… _They_ were watching. He kept moving, hoping who ever had his GPS location would think it was just pure dumb luck that they lived that close to the station.   
  
He put as much distance between him and the shopping center as he could before he ran out of steam. When the leisurely walking path gave way to the less travelled narrow sidewalk that ran behind commercial buildings, he finally slowed down. Exhausted, he took to the shade of the trees and took his shirt off to wipe the sweat from his face and neck. There was no way he would last another 20 hours if he had to keep running like this. There had to be a strategy; some way to stay in front of these assholes, but he was coming up blank. It was beginning to feel pretty damn invisible - he had no food or water, no money, and no way to communicate with anyone.  
  
He looked down the path in both directions to make sure he was alone, then let himself sink to the ground, resting under a heavy oak. For the first time he got a good look at the anklet he was wearing – it wasn’t much different than the one his brother had worn when he was on house arrest for a month. Mickey took the pager from his belt and inspected it as well. It had several buttons but the only one he’d been instructed to push was the green one. He pushed it again and the screen lit up; the time slid from right to left – 9:37 - before it went dark again. Only 23 minutes before he needed to start moving again.   
  
He dropped his head, parched and exhausted as the weight of the entire situation began to beat down on him.  
  
_Think think think! There’s gotta be something I’m missing._  
  
This wasn’t the first mess he been in, but it was certainly the one with the most at stake. He couldn’t afford to play their sadistic game hour by hour, collecting crumbs as he went. Svetlana and Yevgeny’s lives were in the balance, and it was either all in or nothing in order to get them out alive.   
  
As he sat there, a thought occurred him – had they set him up to fail, knowing he would run to find Ian, and therefore forfeit by a technicality for involving the police? Or, did they even know Ian existed? The Russian had never mentioned Ian, and certainly he would have spelled out that caveat if it played into their plans. Mickey ran the conversation back in his head – Terry’s debt, his brothers and sister, Svet and Yevgeny were all mentioned, but anyone who knew anything about Mickey would know that if you wanted him to make the impossible happen, then you had to make Ian the goal.   
  
They didn’t know about Ian, Mickey was almost willing to bet on it. How could they? When Mickey had cut ties with Terry the year before, Ian was still stationed 7000 miles away. It had only been the _rumors_ of another man that had sent Terry on the warpath. Terry started calling week after week, threatening to cut Mickey's balls off or shoot him down on the street in broad daylight if he ever saw him again, saying _“no fucking son of mine is gonna be some faggot pole smoker! I’d rather see you fucking dead!”_   
  
When Mickey finally had enough of his bullshit, he loaded up his gun to go face Terry once and for all, deciding that he'd wasted enough of his life hiding from his old man. He wasn’t about keep hiding just as life was finally getting good. But Ian had been there to stop him, saying _“It’s not worth it, Mickey. Just forget about him, he can’t touch us now.”_ The truth was, had Ian not been making his way through the Police Academy at that time, Mickey would have gone through with it. Instead, he put away his gun, then the next day he changed his phone number, and they both got on with life.

That had worked for a while, until 5 months ago when Terry found out that Mickey had actually bought a house _with some faggot._ Soon Terry tracked down Mickey's number and the calls started up again, but Ian assured him that Terry still had no idea where they were living, and was either too lazy or too dumb to put that much effort into finding them. Mickey wasn't so sure about that.

That was all another time though... Before this nightmare of a game had begun. Now as Mickey sat under the tree, he began to feel more certain that the Russian might know about _someone_ , but it was unlikely they had any real information on Ian at all – after all, that was Terry’s fight with Mickey, not the Russian's. They just wanted their money and a good show for the next 20 hours.   
  
Mickey checked the time on the pager again, realizing he only had minutes left to get away from the river before they disclosed his location and cornered him in again. He stood to cut through the trees and head toward the back lots of the warehouses. The first thing he needed to do once he got past the 10 o’clock hour alive, was to find some water. The day was heating up and he’d spent much of it running, and was starting to feel a weak from the lack of water and food.   
  
He had almost cleared the trees when a ragged looking vagrant stepped in front of him. Mickey could smell the sour alcohol and sweat on him from several feet away. He smiled at Mickey and held his hands up like a defensive basketball player blocking Mickey’s path.  
  
“Going somewhere?” The vagrant hopped side to side playfully, “What’s that in your hand? Lemme see!”  
  
“Go fuck yourself.” Mickey kept his eye on the guy in front of him as he clipped the pager back on his belt with the other. Just then, it buzzed, announcing the 10 o’clock hour. He pressed the green button 3 times blindly.   
  
“Is that a _pager_? You some fancy ass doc or somethin’?” He was more interested in the pager now that Mickey had moved it out of sight. “Nah nah nah… give it here! And while you’re at it, empty out your pockets too.”   
  
“You ain't getting shit, asshole.”   
  
The vagrant hopped at Mickey, hoping to startle him, but it was more comical than anything.   
  
Mickey shook his head and rolled his eyes, “Are you fucking shitting me right now?” _How much worse could this fucking day get_ , he thought.

He wasn’t concerned about the size of the guy in front of him; he was just a few inches taller and about 30 pounds heavier than Mickey, and in a fair fight Mickey had taken down bigger men than that. No, Mickey’s only concern was getting the fuck out of that area before that psycho Knight Rider or Shoeless Joe Jackson, aka Adam Fucking Bradley, showed up again with his baseball bat and tried to open up his skull.  
  
“Get the fuck out of my way,” Mickey growled, advancing a step, but the vagrant only crouched lower, setting his stance and laughing. The crunching of twigs and leaves behind Mickey alerted him too late, and before he could turn, someone took hold of both his arms, pulling them tight behind his back. Mickey struggled to get free as the first vagrant jumped around excitedly.   
  
“Yeah! Yeah! Get ‘im Jimmy! Don’t let ‘im loose!” he screamed. He advanced on Mickey, but Mickey lifted his legs up in front of him and kicked hard, knocking the vagrant off balance. Mickey tightened up those core muscles and lifted his legs higher, kicking a second time and hitting the guy in the head. The asshole went down, bloody and dazed.  
  
The man holding Mickey's arms, _Jimmy_ , struggled to hold on, but Mickey didn’t stop moving. He had spent years sparring with Ian and wrestling his way out of Ian's lanky leg holds and strong arms. Most recently, Ian had practiced his arrest control koga moves on Mickey, and Mickey prided himself in giving a good fight every time. He knew ten different ways to wiggle out of a hold. He dropped his center of gravity and fell low, forcing the guy behind him to fall with him, then using his legs, he swung out to the side, loosening the grip on his arms and working himself free.   
  
Jimmy struggled to hold on while his partner tried coming at Mickey again, but Mickey kept his legs kicking and impossible to grasp hold of.  
  
“Grab his legs! Don’t let him get away!” Jimmy yelled, the stench of his breath was hot on Mickey's face as they squirmed around on the ground. Mickey couldn't help but notice that he sounded as dimwitted as the first guy.   
  
Mickey didn’t give them a chance to pin him down again. Jimmy lost hold of one arm, and that was all Mickey needed. He slammed his free arm straight back, elbowing Jimmy in the nose, then pushed himself off the ground, coming up to stand on both legs. Without a second to spare, he threw a fucking wrecking ball right hook into Jimmy’s face and sent him stumbling.   
  
“ _Jimmy!_ You ok?” 

For the first time, Mickey could see now that Jimmy was a much larger adversary, but regardless of size, his ass was gonna get beat today. The first asshole came for Mickey again, charging head on and hitting him at the waist. They tumbled to the ground, but Mickey rolled him over and wrapped his legs around his rib cages tight, then let loose, punching him left, right, then left again! By the third punch the guy was out of the fight, but Mickey kept going until Jimmy pulled him off. 

That didn’t stop Mickey. He rolled away before Jimmy could dominate him, and jumped back up on his feet, bouncing around like a prize fighter, ready to go. His eyes lit up, and a deadly smile graced his face as he teased with a wave of his fingers and invited Jimmy into _his_ ring.  
  
“Come on bitch, let’s see what you got!” Mickey swiped at his nose, looking at his hand to make sure they hadn't drawn blood, then looked back at Jimmy and wiggled his brows. He chuckled as he rocked back and forth, his left foot forward and his F-U-C-K U-U-P fists ready to go. He turned his head side to side, loosening his neck, feeling every bit in his element.  
  
Jimmy swung, but Mickey ducked, then came up hard with a right, hitting Jimmy square in the jaw. Jimmy wobbled.   
  
“Come on, tough guy. You ain't no weeble wobble!" Mickey joked. "Get ready asshole, ‘cause I guaran-fuckin-tee you’re going down.” .   
  
Jimmy swung again and Mickey artfully dodged him, then spun low and swept his legs under Jimmy’s. Jimmy fell so hard, Mickey was sure he heard someone yelling _Timber!_ He was on top of Jimmy in a flash, giving him the same treatment he’d given his partner, left, right, left! Jimmy fought, but he was no match for Mickey. The only thing that saved him from the worst beating of his life was the familiar sound of a growling engine getting louder.   
  
Mickey stopped punching. All the fight had gone out of Jimmy, as he lay half conscious on the ground with his arms spread wide. Mickey jumped up and listened closely, trying to figure out what direction the car was coming from, then he ran west toward a cinder block wall at the far end of the warehouse, leaving his two assailants passed out on the ground behind him.   
  
The engine grew louder, but it wasn’t the sound of the car that worried Mickey. It was the high pitched ringing he was hearing. He shook his head, and poked at his ear, trying to remember if either of the vagrants had gotten one good punch in, but soon realized it wasn’t his ears either. He reached the far end of the warehouse, jumping the wall to take cover, and his focus changed.   
  
The car arrived. It was circling the area slowly, driving back and forth between several different buildings. After what felt like the longest minute of Mickey’s life, the driver finally gave up. They had arrived too late and assumed Mickey was long gone. He listened as the rumble of the engine return to the traffic a block away, but the ringing sound continued. He stood from where he had been crouching and realized the sound was coming from his ankle bracelet. He panicked and started patting himself all over looking for the pager, but it was gone, lost in the fight.  
  
Mickey pulled himself up to the top of the wall, peeking over carefully to make sure the driver was truly gone and he wasn’t about to be ambushed. When he was sure the coast was clear, he jumped over and started creeping back in the direction of the trees. If Dumb and Dumber were ready to go another round, so be it – one thing was certain, he couldn’t leave that pager behind.  
  
As he neared the trees he could hear the pager’s high pitched ringing, matching that of the anklet. Even from a distance Mickey could see the two men who had attacked him were long gone, so he jogged over quickly to retrieve the pager, but when he arrived, there was someone else waiting for him.  
  
“Lose something?”   
  
Adam was standing where Mickey had left Jimmy lying on the ground. He was holding the bat in one hand, and the pager in the other. 


	9. STEE-RIKE THREE!

“Lose something?” Adam’s face was flushed and beaded in sweat. He wiped his hand across his brow, then gave a twitch of his nose and took a deep sniff, the whole time keeping his eyes on Mickey’s every move. Mickey knew right away he was tweaking. Adam's erratic behavior and sudden transformation into a would-be assassin started to make a little more sense, not to mention the remnants of white powder that lined his nose.  
  
Mickey reached down and grabbed a large stone from the dirt, the only thing he could find to defend himself. Running wasn’t an option; It wasn’t just the 15-minute grace period that was ticking away that kept him standing there. Now it was simply because he was damn tired of running from some asshole, who in any other circumstance, would have gotten their ass beat already. Seeing Adam at the house earlier had been so unexpected that Mickey had been caught off guard, but now his blood was pumping, and he was ready.  
  
Adam looked at the stone Mickey was gripping and laughed, “See, I knew you’d be up for a little batting practice!” He cricked his neck side to side.   
  
“Got a little something there.” Mickey pinched at his own nose.   
  
Adam’s eyes widened as if he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He rubbed his finger back and forth under his nose and laughed nervously. Mickey took a few steps forward to close the distance between them, but Adam stepped back.  
  
“You really should be thanking me. Those two bums were about to take off with this before I showed up.” Adam inspected the pager and started pressing buttons, “How do you make it stop ringing?”   
  
“Throw it here.” Mickey said, hoping Adam was just high enough or dumb enough to do it, but no such luck. He took another step forward while Adam pressed buttons, close enough to make the ringing stop. That was good enough for now and would buy Mickey another 15 minutes if it started up again.  
  
Adam laughed, “I did it!” He looked up and fear gripped him when he noticed how much closer Mickey was. He tucked the pager into his pocket and gripped the bat with both hands, ready to strike.  
  
“Wanna know something funny,” he asked Mickey. “I saw you run back here from the shopping center and I knew you’d head up river, so I went and got my car and found a place to hang out up the road until 10.” He smirked, proud of himself for calling it right.  
  
Mickey took another slow step to his left and Adam did the same, circling to keep Mickey directly in front of him.   
  
“Anyway, when they sent out your location, I ran back here, but those 2 bozos had beat me to you, and I thought they were part of the game!” This time he laughed, waiting for Mickey to do the same, but got nothing. _“That’s_ the funny part, don’t you get it? I thought they got to you first, so I just stood over there to see how it all panned out, because, the rules… you know? So, I guess that was 2 strikes against me for letting you get away, huh?”  
  
“You really fuckin’ like baseball, don’t you?”  
  
“I was a high school All Star.” Adam announced, puffing out his chest a little.  
  
“Ah, you peaked in high school? Good to know.” Mickey rolled his eyes and took a sideways step.  
  
“You know, you really have a smart mouth on you… for a _fag_.”   
  
“The fuck did you just call me?”  
  
Adam sneered, “Oh, I know all about you. I used to think you and Svetlana were married, until my wife pointed out how chummy you and Ian were getting at the ball field.” Adam shook his head in disgust, “Right there, in front of everyone. I mean, what you do in your bedroom is your business, but _out on the ball field?_ That’s not right.”  
  
Mickey didn’t waste a second trying to think of what Adam might be talking about. He and Ian had never even held hands in public, a habit of self-preservation from growing up south side, so whatever Adam had seen couldn’t have been much.  
  
“Is that how you got involved with this shit? Needed to feel like a real man – do a little _fag_ bashing to compensate for your tiny fucking dick?” Mickey laughed. If Adam had been hoping to humiliate him for liking a dick up his ass, he was poorly mistaken. Terry had done his worse over the years, and if Terry couldn’t make Mickey feel like shit, no one else would either.

“Maybe you’re a closet fag…Is that it?" Mickey taunted. " _Maybe_ you wanna know what it’s like to get a nice piece of wood shoved so far up your ass it makes you see stars.” Mickey took a few more steps to the left, egging Adam on, “Pull your pants down and I’ll shove that fucking bat so far up your ass you’ll see a whole new universe.”  
  
Mickey took a quick hop to the left, startling Adam with his sudden movements. Adam swung the bat wide to keep him at bay, missing by several feet, but Mickey seemed entertained by his effort. His lethal grin unnerved Adam and Mickey could see that the drug induced courage was beginning to crack. This wasn’t Mickey’s first rodeo with a doped-up idiot who thought they could take him on. Another 2 steps to the left and Mickey had re-positioned Adam exactly where he wanted him, on the decline of the hill with a fallen tree limb behind him. 

"All right, bitch... let's play ball..."  
  
Mickey lifted the stone preparing to pitch, and like the All-Star-player-who-peaked-in-high-school that Adam was, he choked up on the bat, ready to hit a home run. Mickey teased, raising his brows playfully, then faked a pitch, aiming straight for Adam’s legs. Instinctively, Adam did what every batter would do, and lifted his leg to keep from being hit, then crossed his arm out in front of him to shield the blow. With his guard down, Mickey charged head first and knocked Adam’s legs out from under him.   
  
They both went tumbling backwards over the tree limb. Adam held onto the bat, but it was impossible to do any damage to Mickey in such close proximity. Mickey wrestled to get control, wrapping his legs around Adam’s as they rolled and pinning at least one of his arms to the ground. He lifted the stone above his head, then slammed it straight towards Adam’s head. Adam turned just in time to avoid a direct hit, but took enough of a hit to leave him dazed. He dropped the bat completely and continued his feeble attempt to struggle free, now pleading with Mickey to stop.  
  
“Please, no more! I didn’t want to do this! They made me do it, I swear to god, I didn’t want to!” He cried out, using his one free arm to shield his head from another blow.  
  
Mickey was ready to strike again but hesitated. He grabbed a fistful of hair and jerked Adam’s face forward to look at him.   
  
_“Who!?_ Who fucking sent you? The Russian?”  
  
“The… _what?_ No… I don’t know any…” Mickey slammed his head into the ground and raised the stone again, “I swear, I don’t know who you're talking about! They're _Italian!_ That’s all I know! I owe them money!”  
  
Adam whimpered, begging for his life. Mickey held onto him tight – _some fucked up game -_ He had to wonder how many different oufits were involved.  
  
“And you just _happened_ to know me, and thought why the fuck not, huh?”  
  
“It wasn’t like that, Mickey! I didn’t know who I was looking for until I got that first text this morning, I swear! Check the phone!”  
  
Mickey searched his pockets, taking his pager first and tucking it into his own pocket. He found a phone in another pocket but couldn't unlock it without Adam’s fingerprint.   
  
“Fuckin’ move and I’ll smash your skull, got it?” Adam nodded frantically, and Mickey put the phone near his hand so he could unlock it.  
  
The home screen was blue with one black square app and nothing else. Mickey opened it and saw several text messages, the first at 6 a.m. just as Adam had said. It was a picture of Mickey outside of his job, similar to those the Russian had sent him earlier of his own siblings. The next text had a list of rules and Mickey's personal description, including his name, age, height, weight, hair and eye color, tattoos, and addresses. Terry’s address was listed first, but the 2nd address wasn’t the home he and Ian shared together – it was his newest place that he’d only signed a lease on a week earlier. The last few texts had been his map locations, but none which showed Ian's house. Mickey tucked the phone into his pocket.  
  
“How the fuck did you know where I was this morning?”  
  
“I-I have the team roster… that’s the address we had on record for Yev-“  
  
“Don’t say his fucking name again, got it?”  
  
Adam squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. “Mickey… please! I swear on my kid’s lives, it was either me or you, I didn’t have a choice!”  
  
Mickey believed him. He hadn’t had a choice either, and it was his kid’s life on the line if he failed. He tossed the stone he was hold down the hill and grabbed the bat before standing up.

Adam stayed on the ground, rolled in the fetal position, and Mickey stood above him with the bat raised, ready to strike.  
  
“I want everything. Start talking.”  
  
Adam bumbled his way through his story – his business had been hurting, his credit shot, so he did the only thing he could think of to save his family from financial ruin and gone to a loan shark. When his payments started falling behind, they started leaving little messages for him – first his wife’s brakes were cut resulting in a minor accident and a broken arm. Next, his dog was found with a wire wrapped around its neck and hanging from the back fence. His entrails were dripping from his severed belly.

Adam knew they would come for him or his family next, so with no other options, he went to them to beg for mercy and more time, but the Italians had something else in mind. The _Annual Game_ was about to start, and the Italians wanted to put a player in. Adam was given the choice: hunt or be hunted.  
  
“I swear, that's everything.” he said, still rolled in a ball on the ground and trembling.  
  
“Stand up and turn around. Hurry the fuck up!”   
  
“What are you gonna do? Please, Mickey, don’t hurt me!” Adam begged, turning his back to Mickey as instructed.  
  
“This is for calling me a fucking fag!” Mickey swung the bat, turning his hips into it like an old pro and smashing Adam’s right femur in half.   
  
_“AAAAUUUUUUUUGGH!”_ Adam fell to the ground screaming, his leg bent at an unnatural angle. _“PLEASE, GOD, NO MORE!”_   
  
Mickey swung again, this time bringing it straight down and shattering the two shin bones on the same leg. Adam writhed in agony, his mouth open in a silent scream. Mickey knelt, grabbing a fistful of his hair as he spoke quietly into his ear.   
  
“You fell down the fucking stairs, got it? If I ever see you again, today or any other fucking day, you’re a dead man. You’ll fucking wish the Italians got to you first, _capiche_?” He shoved Adam’s face into the dirt then checked his pockets once more, but all he found was a single car key.  
  
“Which way to your car?”   
  
Adam lifted a finger and pointed as best he could, and Mickey took off running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=4bfrTHAlkz0&feature=share

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Reader... no one knows what the fuck is going to happen in this story less than I do. This is "just-between-work" writing, so chapters will probably be short and sporadic, but stick around and let's find out together what happens next! Good luck to all of us 😉 Thanks for stopping by.
> 
> Oh... One more thing! Thanks in advance for your great comments! I suck at replying, but know that I read them and I appreciate you for following the story and taking the time to write something!


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